


After

by round_robin



Series: Important [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John comes home from the hospital, he'll do anything to protect Sherlock from Moriarty. Sequel to "Important" and that should be read first, otherwise it makes no sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

Coming home from the hospital was… interesting. For many reasons.

Maybe it was because Lestrade gave their cab a police escort. Maybe it was because Mycroft called John’s phone to see how he was doing. Or, perhaps it was because Sherlock was the model of good behavior. He opened every door for John, carried his overnight bag, hooked their arms together to help him up the stairs. Then there was more door opening, some pillow fluffing and—and this was the part that nearly knocked John flat—the making of tea.

Sherlock actually made tea. For both of them. Had he not come straight out of hospital, John might’ve had a stroke right then.

And then (as if that wasn’t enough) Sherlock sat on the couch right next to him, practically vibrating, ready to move in a split second, in case John might need anything else.

Though really, none of that surprised John. What really surprised him was that Moriarty wasn’t there waiting for them. They escaped, survived his clever trap, lived to tell the tale. However you put it, they beat him. In some small way, John and Sherlock beat Moriarty’s game. John wasn’t stupid; he didn’t expect the insane man to take that lightly. So really, expecting him to be in their flat, waiting to strike, was that really so strange for John to think?

That first night, John slept like a rock. Sherlock took him to his bedroom “don’t want you going up those stairs, John,” and sat in a chair next to it for a few moments. Watching John sleep. No, that wouldn’t do.

“Come here, you idiot.” John said, tugging Sherlock’s wrist until he too was laying on the bed. Just like in the hospital bed, John reached up and cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, his fingers winding through the curls at his nape. “We’ve had a long day, and we both need to sleep.”

Sherlock’s quick silver eyes darted from John’s lips to his eyes. “Isn’t this the part where we talk about what this is?” He asked. “I thought that was customary with new relationships?”

John just smiled, continuing to run his fingers through the detective’s hair. “Not with us. We’ve always been in a relationship.”

A slow smile crawled across Sherlock’s face. “Quite right.” Then, John leaned in for a kiss that firmly closed the subject.

But that was the first night.

 

~

 

In a seamless transition, John’s room became their room, Sherlock’s room became the lab, and the kitchen table was once again sterile enough to eat at. The slight changes in their behavior—how they stood a little closer to each other, touches lingering just that much longer—were initially chalked up to John’s recent hospitalization. As Sherlock’s only friend, the crew from the Yard understood, or rather, they thought they did. In reality, Sherlock was just wary about being overly affectionate in public. Being new to the whole romantic entanglements thing, he didn’t want to rush into anything. Though they shared a bed, kissing and touching was as far as they went. As far as Sherlock was ready to go.

For John, it was all fine. Really. He would never want to push the other man too far. Besides, he didn’t really have the energy for it anyways. Not when he wasn’t sleeping.

Since their first night back at Baker Street, John hadn’t slept once. It wasn’t insomnia after being knocked out for several days (actually, being comatose or near enough was surprisingly exhausting) and it wasn’t his usual nightmares. No, he stayed awake on purpose.

Every night, he would pretend to go to sleep beside Sherlock and wait for his breathing to even out. When he was dead sure that Sherlock was asleep, John silently crept from the bed, went to the bookshelf and opened the hide-a-book. Nestled inside the wooden box, sat his British Army issue Browning. Then, he would creep back to the arm chair next to the bed and sit. Gun in hand, finger on the trigger, John Watson would sit the night through, watching over his new love with one eye on the door.

Just like Sherlock sat at his sick bed, waiting for John to wake, John sat watching over Sherlock. Making sure Moriarty didn’t come back to take what he so recently tried to destroy.

Every night, it went the same way. Sometimes it would take a little longer for Sherlock to fall asleep, but sleep he did. Probably. John wasn’t one hundred percent sure that the man wasn’t just pretending to try and give John his own rest. But if he was pretending, why would he carry on with it after John assumed his place guarding Sherlock?

John didn’t even know if Sherlock knew what he was doing. He probably did. Though again, why did he let it go? He couldn’t know. Over the past few days, Sherlock seemed to make Moriarty a non-priority, while he shot up to the top of John’s list. Because Moriarty would not take this from him. Now that they had it, John wouldn’t let it go for the world.

So he sat next to the bed, gun in hand, staring at the door. Just try it, Jim, John thought. Just try to take him away.

 

~

 

The first time Sherlock woke in the middle of the night, John managed to make it back to the bed in time to pretend that he too was sleeping. The second time, he pretended that he was getting up to get a glass of water. More excuses followed. Midnight snack, stretching out a leg cramp, another glass of water.

Sherlock wasn’t stupid.

“John,” he said one night.

The sudden noise breaking through the stillness of the bedroom and John flinched. His gun hand, however, was as steady as a rock. When John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, he knew he couldn’t explain it away this time. Getting caught sitting by the bed, gun in hand, staring at the door, was a pretty damning position. There was nothing left to tell but the truth.

“You said I was important to you,” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. “You are.”

“You’re important to me too,” he managed. But just barely. Faced with the reality of what he was doing—sitting up, guarding Sherlock, ready to shoot Moriarty if he ever got this close—John was having trouble holding himself together.

“We got away, Sherlock,” he panted, almost hyperventilating for what appeared to be no reason. “We got away from him. Moriarty won’t stand for that.” More ragged breaths and Sherlock rose from the bed, resting his hands on John’s knees. But John couldn’t stop now. “He’ll come back. He doesn’t want me, he’ll come back for _you_.”

Tears blurred John’s vision until he couldn’t see. All he could do was feel. He felt it as Sherlock moved even closer, long-fingered hands sliding up his thighs. Grounding him. The Browning suddenly weighed so much and John had to set it down. He had to touch Sherlock. Bringing his hands up, he cupped the younger man’s face and buried his nose in the dark curls.

“I won’t let him take you away,” John said in his ear. “Now that I finally have you, he can’t take you.” His fingers tightened against the soft flesh in a way that probably hurt, but for a moment, John didn’t care. “You will leave me under your own steam, do you understand that, Sherlock? This will only end when you want it to. Not when some mad man thinks he has the right to _take_ you.”

For a long moment, they just sat there. Sherlock perched on the bed, John in the chair, completely entwined in one another as John tried to calm down. He couldn’t, though. He really couldn’t. The thought of Moriarty coming anywhere near Sherlock was hard enough when they were just friends, but now, now they were _important_ to each other. Having that and then losing it so suddenly… John wouldn’t be able to handle it.

When Sherlock deemed John sufficiently calmed (he wasn’t shaking anymore) he wrapped his hands around his hips and leaned in close enough to kiss. “John,” he said again. “Come back to bed.” Slowly, carefully, he started tugging John from the chair.

“He’s out there, Sherlock,” John whispered against his lips as he let himself be pulled. “He’s out there and he won’t stop.”

“John,” that deep, soothing voice rumbled and Sherlock laid back, pulling John on top of him. “We’re safe. He won’t come after us. He can’t.”

“But how do you—” Sherlock wouldn’t let him finish that thought. He leaned up and sealed John’s mouth closed with his own, kissing him slow and deep.

For a second, John let himself be distracted. He let that warm, wonderful mouth that could cut so deeply with powerful words, but felt so soft against his own pull him down. Kissing Sherlock was still so new. They’d only been together a few weeks and were never passionate enough in public for people to notice, so this… this was still wonderful. More than enough to put the manic, fearful thoughts from John’s head.

Soft, caressing fingers moved up his sides, pushing John’s t-shirt up and off. In pulling his shirt over his head, Sherlock broke the kiss, giving John enough time to come back to himself. “Sherlock, what if he comes back?” He huffed as Sherlock tried to reclaim his lips. “What if he tries to take you again?”

“He won’t,” Sherlock whispered back. “Moriarty is far away. So far away, John….” Pressing his lips up with more vigor, Sherlock went back to the distracting kisses.

But now, John wouldn’t be distracted. “What if you’re wrong?” He whispered as Sherlock slowly pulled him out of his pajama pants. “You always miss something, what if you’re missing this?”

“I think you’re missing something,” Sherlock smiled, and ground his hips upward.

John’s panic slammed to a halt. Sherlock’s cock, warm, hard and heavy, pressed up against his own. He was naked. Naked in bed with Sherlock. That hadn’t happened before….

“Sherlock,” John couldn’t help but moan the name. “When you’re ready. Not when—Christ!” Another thrust of those slim hips and John had to take a deep, panting breath before he could speak again. “Not just because you want me to calm down.”

“But I want,” Sherlock said. His hips bucked up again, grinding their cocks together in a way that made John lose it. “I want to.”

“Okay,” John nodded. “Do we have any?” Words. John couldn’t even remember the words.

Before John could even attempt to marshal his mental faculties, Sherlock’s long arm was already reaching over to the bedside table. He slid the drawer open and pulled out a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms. “I didn’t know when I’d be ready, so I’ve had this on hand for a week.” He said quietly.

If John didn’t know better, he’d say Sherlock was nervous. Which brought him back around to: “You don’t have to do this for me,” he said firmly. “If you’re not ready…. Sherlock, really. I’m fine with what we’ve been doing.”

All the happiness—which was still so new—drained from Sherlock’s eyes. His hands around the back of John’s neck tightened. “He tried to take you away too, John. And for fifty-eight hours and twenty-three minutes, he did. I didn’t know what was happening to you. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back and I could tell you—” cutting himself off, Sherlock took a breath. “I want this, John. I want you. Moriarty or no Moriarty, I want _you_.”

“Alright,” John nodded. He dipped down for a kiss, lingering close for a moment. “If this is really what you want.” One more kiss and he pulled back. Reaching over to the nightstand, he picked up the bottle and pulled a condom from the pack.

Sherlock laid there patiently as John’s shaking fingers worked the cap of the bottle, opening it and slicking his fingers. When he reached forward between Sherlock’s spread legs, his fingers stopped shaking.

John prepared him slowly, making sure he did this properly. One finger, massaging the muscle, working it open, then two. Slow and gentle. The deep moans rumbling up from Sherlock’s chest weren’t helping with John’s steadiness, but he kept to it. Being as careful as possible.

“John,” Sherlock finally panted. “Enough. More than enough.” John didn’t listen, just kept running his fingers in, out and around Sherlock’s opening, gently kneading until the muscle was soft and pliant.

“John!” Sherlock moaned. “I can’t take it anymore.”

In one move, the younger man reached forward and took the condom from John’s other hand. Lifting it to his teeth, he ripped open the package and tossed it aside. John’s fingers still inside of him, Sherlock reached forward and rolled the thin latex down over John’s cock. He moaned at the contact, his fingers jerking a bit inside of Sherlock.

Everything set, Sherlock leaned back on the bed, looking up at John with pupils completely blown. “Now,” he said. “Now John.”

John took another few seconds to add lube to his cock before moving back into position. Head lined up with Sherlock, John started the slow push inside. The agony of moving so slow was almost too much, but John was determined to do this right. Sherlock, on the other hand, was as impatient as ever.

Long legs wrapped themselves around John’s hips and pulled him forward, sucking him into that tight heat. “John!” Sherlock moaned, hands coming up to grip the doctor’s shoulders.

For his part, John didn’t moan. Couldn’t. He couldn’t make a single sound. Sherlock was so… Christ, John couldn’t even think the words to describe it. Everything was just so right. Better than he ever imagined.

Pitching forward, John buried his nose into Sherlock’s neck, smelling the sweat and sex and everything there. It was intoxicating.

“John,” Sherlock started to moan after a moment. Arms curled around John’s back tightened and shook. “John, move please.”

Seemingly on their own, John’s hips slid back, then thrust forward into Sherlock. The man under him moaned, knees tightening around John’s hips. He thrust again. And again and again. Until Sherlock was nothing but a moaning, groaning mess underneath him.

“Yes John. Yes, God… more. Harder, h-harder! Oh, John….” While Sherlock seemed to be incapable of being quiet (not that John was complaining) John couldn’t make a sound. He just laid there, hips thrusting forward, pulling back, wrenching beautiful noises from Sherlock. But he made no noise. He couldn’t. John’s mind was too… full.

Because this was Sherlock. This was Sherlock, moaning, and groaning, and God damn it so gorgeous, in their bed. He, John Watson, was responsible for this. Making the man who never stopped thinking, melt under his touch. For some reason, John’s brain couldn’t comprehend the luck that brought him to this situation. Because this was Sherlock. And this was all John ever wanted.

When he felt Sherlock start to shudder and twitch around him, John’s brain finally snapped into gear. “Sherlock!” He moaned.

Pushing up to his elbows, John cupped that pale face, his hips thrusting faster, which brought more moans. “Sherlock,” he said again. “You’re beautiful, this—this is more than I could ever. Oh, God!”

The muscles surrounding his cock started to twitch and clench, pulling John in deeper as Sherlock started to come. “John!” The younger man moaned. His back arched like a bow, fingers scrambling for purchase on John.

Wet, sticky come painted Sherlock’s chest as he pulled John over with him. For a long moment, everything seemed to be frozen. John slammed into Sherlock, as close as physically possible, and Sherlock paused mid-arch as he kept coming and coming.

Then, the moment was over. Sherlock slumped back onto the bed, bringing John down with him. Arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, Sherlock wouldn’t let him go. “That was amazing,” he whispered. John just groaned. He couldn’t speak again. Not even if he wanted to. Or move.

Sherlock seemed to notice John’s lack of motor function and moved to roll them over on their sides. Once John was down on the mattress, Sherlock reached down and removed the condom. Knotting it and putting it back in the wrapper for disposal. Before John could thank him, he rose from the bed and walked into the en suite, coming back with a damp flannel and a clean chest. Leaning over John’s prone body, Sherlock cleaned the sweat and lube off of John before laying down beside him again. Then he waited. Looking at him with patient eyes, Sherlock waited for John to become verbal again.

It must’ve taken longer than Sherlock wanted to wait, as he reached forward again and pulled John to him. Yes, John thought. This is good. He actually thought he would have to trick Sherlock into cuddling afterwards.

“John?” Sherlock said.

John was perfectly content to fall asleep—his duty to watch over Sherlock completely forgotten—but he tried to focus his attention. “Mm?” Was all he could manage.

Sherlock’s fingers came up to stroke his sweaty hair. “You can return the Browning to the hide-a-book.” John rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock knew about that, why was he surprised? “You don’t need to stay up nights to keep me safe. Moriarty won’t come after us ever again.”

The mere mention of that name chased away all the calm that gathered inside of John. “You can’t know that,” sure, now his voice worked.

Sherlock smiled, stroking John’s hair again. “Yes I can. While you were out, I found him. He’s dead. He can’t come after us.”

A shiver of relief ran through John.

“You can sleep now,” Sherlock said.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Not beated or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. I never meant to write a sequel to "Important" but I had this idea. Sherlock spent time at John's sick bed, why shouldn't John have a chance to be protective?
> 
> Also, my roommate got me a hide-a-book for Christmas and I had fun thinking of what Sherlock or John would do if they had a hide-a-book.


End file.
